


the truth is she doesn't need me to protect her

by serenitysea



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drinking, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysea/pseuds/serenitysea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wherein skye tries to <i>stop the hurt</i>.</p><p>or: </p><p>the one where skye has a drinking problem and lance doesn't judge her for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the truth is she doesn't need me to protect her

**Author's Note:**

> \+ prompt fill for: 
> 
> \+ alcohol cw, unintentional drug use cw.  
> \+ title from vampire weekend's _step_.

She has that loose limbed feeling like the room is spinning and her legs are somehow not attached to her body and —  
  
— strong arms come around her and pull her back to earth.  
  
"Easy now, okay. I’ve got you."  
  
*  
  
When Skye is 17, she runs with a fairly bad crowd.  
  
They do drugs and drink _all the time_ and obliterate their braincells on the regular.  
  
For a group of people who are so _brilliant_ when it comes to computer sciences, she can’t for the life of her figure out why they’re so hellbent on getting wasted.  
  
She tries to ask one of the girls as they paw through the fridge in search of food.  
  
The girl just stares at her with bleary eyes. “It stops the hurt,” she answers dully, attempting to pop some grapes into her mouth (she fails horribly).  
  
Skye stares after her as she walks away, distractedly accepting a cup from someone passing through.  
  
The next thing she remembers, the room is spinning and she’s not quite _all_ there and someone is arranging her legs and arms neatly on the couch.  
  
It seems impossible, but somehow she makes out the distant roar of Miles’ voice. “What the _hell are you **DOING**_?!”  
  
"Relax, man." An easy drawl comes from somewhere above her. "It’s just a little E to take the edge off."  
  
There is the sickening sound of flesh on bone echoed by nearly a dozen people gasping and then a cool napkin on her forehead.  
  
"It’s okay, baby." Lips on her forehead. "I’ve got you."  
  
*  
  
After Donnie, things begin to change.  
  
She drinks more. Actually she drinks all the time, now.  
  
When she’s writing a debrief (but only towards the end of it, so Coulson doesn’t know ); when she’s relieved, or sad, or depressed or frustrated or _anything_.  
  
She doesn’t want to feel any of those things.  
  
So she drinks until they blur into nonexistence.  
                                                                                                                      
*  
  
When she accuses Lance of smelling like a distillery just outside of her biological father’s last known address it’s not because her heart is in it.  
  
It’s because she needs to deflect.  
  
She can’t have Coulson knowing that she gets up most mornings and pours herself scotch until she falls back asleep.  
  
So she accuses Lance of the one thing she needs to be tried and condemned for.  
  
And Lance will never give up her secret.  
  
*  
  
She likes to put Baileys and Kahlua in her coffee.  
  
It takes the edge off the morning debriefs and slices in half the headache from the night before. ( _Hair of the dog_ was a perfectly legitimate explanation and she’s taking it for all it’s worth.)  
  
But he catches her eye and winks, and it’s not all that different than from when he’s teasing her in the common room or covering up a prank in the lab.  
  
"No worries," Lance says, reaching around her for the milk. "Secret’s safe with me."  
  
And this is how it begins.  
  
*  
  
So she’s slurring her words and trying like hell to drown out the horrible dark feeling inside her lungs that crawls up into her chest and threatens to overtake her mind —  
  
( _did she do the right thing? should she have taken the shot? what right did she have to decide who lived and who died?_ )  
  
— and Lance catches her before she can fall to the ground in a messy heap.  
  
"Whoa!"  
  
She doesn’t even want to look at him and the lights are too bright and gradually he takes her away to somewhere much less invasive.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
Skye would laugh if she had the physical coordination to do so. Instead she has to settle for a watery snort of disbelief and raises the bottle (still clutched in her hand, May would be so proud of her for not losing sight of the objective) in his direction. “Talking never solved anything,”  
  
"You sound like my ex," he mutters quietly under his breath, taking a gauge of the bottle and trying to decipher how much she’s had. "Want to take a break, then?"  
  
Skye holds the bottle to her closer, protectively. “Not a chance.”  
  
Lance nods. “Surely you won’t object to some company.”  
  
"— Actually, I —"  
  
He intercepts her sarcastic look and easily plucks the vodka from her hand. “Nonsense. You should never drink alone.” Lance offers a water bottle that he seems to have magicked into existence. “Drink that next.”  
  
"You’re not my father. I don’t have to do anything you say." Skye retorts, uncertain just enough for his concern to come burrowing through her defenses like a… _friend_.  
  
" ‘s true, you don’t," He says, nonchalantly sliding the bottle closer. "But that’s a bitch of a hangover you’re looking at tomorrow. Take it from someone who knows."  
  
Skye grumbles and it takes her several tries to successfully master the hand-eye coordination required to chug her water.  
  
Lance watches from the corner of his eye and pretends like nothing is happening.  
  
*

And this is how it goes.

After a brutal mission with Hydra, Lance finds her sitting against the wall and staring off into space.  
  
He sighs quietly and slides down the wall until his posture mirrors hers. “Alright then. Hand it over.” Lance expectantly holds out a hand, waits for Skye to slap the vodka into it.  
  
She sips deeply, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Passes the bottle.  
  
It’s hardly his first rodeo (nor is it the first time they have done this) so he doesn’t bother asking if she wants to talk about it.  
  
He just slings an arm around her and pulls her in close and sets the bottle between them.  
  
" ‘stops the hurt," Skye mumbles, closing her eyes.  
  
"I know," Lance says, taking another long sip. "I know."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> \+ [tumblr](http://b-isforbombshell.tumblr.com).


End file.
